


The Comforts of Home

by irisbleufic



Category: V for Vendetta (2005), V for Vendetta - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-08
Updated: 2008-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can only stare at the rubble for so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Comforts of Home

**Author's Note:**

> I vaguely remember insinuating that I'd take a crack at Finch/Dominic in the weeks following the film's release. Time passed and passed, however, and although my liking for the film never diminished, I never quite felt like I'd gotten a good enough glimpse at the world or a firm enough grasp on the characters. Then, finally, I managed to read the graphic novel over two days at work. I'm not sure what clicked, but _something_ must have. I do hope that purists will pardon me my indulgence in using the film-'verse as my basis for time-frame and, in most cases, characterization. I sat down and tried to work out precisely when the events of the film are occurring, and my conclusion was the period spanning 5 November 2038 to 5 November 2039. I used the dates given in Valerie's letter (and offhand comments made by V) as markers to pinpoint how far gone the 2000s are at the point the film's taking place. As ever, the characters are not mine, but any errors and indiscretions are.

**I.**

"I'm so tired," sighed Evey, finally. She stepped forward and lifted her elbows to rest on the rough stone ledge, bowing her head heavily into her palms. She felt simultaneously weightless and ancient.

"Pardon the non-sequitur, but when was the last time you slept?" Finch asked, his voice rough. Each word sounded as if it took him at least as much effort to speak as it had taken Evey to move at last.

"I can't really say," she admitted. "A few days. A week."

Finch made a soft, disapproving sound—eternally put-upon, Evey thought, as if it were his lot in life to tolerate the irrational vagaries of her generation. "If it's not healthy for a man my age, it can certainly do a young lady of yours no good. I think the fireworks are finished. Do you have someplace to go?" He paused uncertainly, and then continued, "Of course, I'll need to speak with you in the morning."

"Morning," Evey said, scanning the crowd below, trying to catch something of their murmurs and shouts, _anything_. "I think it's already here, Inspector. You may want to reconsider your diary for the next few days."

Finch sighed, shifting his weight, a soft scuff of gravel on well-worn soles. "This is my card," he said, and slid the tiny white rectangle across the flat stone surface until the corner poked Evey's wrist. "You'll call me to set up a debriefing, won't you?"

Evey took the card and looked at him. Finch seemed fragile; he'd turn to dust at the slightest touch. "Maybe you need the sleep worse than I do."

"Maybe," Finch conceded, backing away slowly, but surely. It was only when he'd reached the doors of the lift that he realized he didn't know where he was going. "Sorry to trouble you, but which—"

"It's no trouble. I'll come with you," Evey reassured him.

The ride was a dozen floors of silent, dizzying downward motion. Finch closed his eyes through most of it, one hand to his temple, as if he were struggling to remember something. When they finally lurched to a stop, Evey indicated the open doors with a curt wave of her hand. It _did_ take effort.

"This is street-level," she said, breathing in the night chill, which smelled of gunpowder.

Finch simply nodded and stepped out of the lift, eager to be gone. "You'll call."

"Yes," said Evey, holding his gaze as the doors slid shut. "Eventually."

The Shadow Gallery was empty, but it wasn't cold. She'd known how to operate the heating for nearly a year. Shuffling through the central hall on weary feet, she paused next to the jukebox, considering. How long, she wondered, until the generators failed? How long until she'd need to dress in layers of heavy, formal wool and don V's gloves if only for the sheer practicality of it?

Would a single song be one track's indulgence too many?

Evey continued on until she reached the kitchenette, which lay as dark and pristine as V had last left it. One tug of the pull-chain in the corner and the stove was bathed in a soft, orange glow. She could do without music (for it would bring tears, indulgence or no), but not without light. And tea would be a start, certainly. Tea and toast, although she'd have to find a new supplier when the butter ran out.

V's corner of the couch was cold, but the steam rising off Evey's mug made all the difference. Beneath the fragrant richness of her supper, she could just barely taste salt.

 

****

II.

Dominic had heard the explosions. He doubted there was any part of London that _hadn't_. On terrified impulse, he'd stumbled out of the car—just in time to see the first of the fireworks shatter the sky in wild arcs of gold and green and red. He stood transfixed for several long moments, no thought in his mind but for the staggered crescendoes of artifice and destruction. He shuddered to think how Parliament would look in the morning.

As the explosives' cacaphony was gradually replaced by human voices, he wondered where the bloody _hell_ Finch had got off to. Nowhere near the chaos, he hoped. With any luck, his partner was still underground, fruitlessly scratching his forehead over yet another dead end. 

If anyone could spend forty-five minutes on a dead end, it was Finch.

Dominic deliberated for several seconds over whether he ought to keep waiting, or whether he ought to drive around the block in order to kill time. Some part of him wanted nothing more than to drive by Parliament, but some other part of him was sure that, by the sound of things, he wasn't going to get anywhere close. It was then that several young men dashed out of nowhere, conversing urgently amongst themselves. Dominic dashed back to the car and threw himself inside, hitting the _LOCK_ button twice. The last thing he needed was for a bunch of thugs to decide that the army wasn't enough sport for one night. Although none of the young men had appeared to be armed, it didn't necessarily mean that they weren't. 

Dominic watched the small crowds pass for what felt like an eternity, regarding them as warily—and, he thought, _wearily_ —as they did him.

By the time someone knocked on the passenger-side window, Dominic had fallen asleep.

"Open up," Finch mouthed. He looked even more exhausted than Dominic felt.

Once he was safely inside, Dominic rubbed his eyes and said, "It seems we missed a good show."

"Didn't miss it," said Finch, sighing. "Almost wish I had."

"You must've got the aftershocks," Dominic concluded, trying to keep the sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion out of his voice. "You're lucky you're not trapped down there."

"I was well out of harm's way," Finch said. "Miss Hammond saw to that."

"You found them?" asked Dominic, incredulously. "Is the terrorist—"

"Drive," Finch commanded, fastening his seatbelt. "And look out for stragglers."

The story was more than Dominic could get his head around, but he had no other option than to take it as gospel. Finch's flat, fatalistic tone was more than enough to reassure him of that.

"I wonder who killed him," Dominic murmured, gliding to a halt at the intersection. Several tanks rolled by, brought up in the rear by a detail of soldiers. In the rearview mirror, Finch was almost imperceptibly chewing on his lower lip.

"Doesn't matter," Finch said. "They're all dead, too. All we have to do is wait and see who doesn't turn up for work." 

Dominic waited until the soldiers were out of sight, and then turned left. "Do you mean to report for duty, sir? What if there's no one to report to?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Finch replied. "Do you have any idea where _you're_ going?"

Dominic thought about that for a second. He'd been driving more or less in the direction of work—which Finch had astutely realized—but somehow, that didn't seem as logical as it had ten minutes ago.

"Not really. Shall I drive you home, sir?"

"If it isn't too much trouble. I've walked farther."

"It's no trouble," Dominic reassured him. "I'll take you."

Stealing an inscrutable sidelong glance, Finch merely nodded and switched on the radio. _1812_ played on, a loop from whence they'd find neither respite, nor escape. At least not tonight, Dominic thought.

This time, he didn't bother with the turn signal: _anything_ for another hard glance.

**III.**

Evey couldn't remember the last time she'd spent a day in bed—let alone a bed that wasn't her own.

V's sheets were black: that, she'd expected. What she hadn't expected was the simplicity of the cotton weave, the small mattress, the modestly standard duvet. There had even been an old quilt folded at the foot, its fabric patches worn so fine that they felt like silk against Evey's skin. She'd wrapped herself in it in spite of the heat, curling beneath the sheets and the duvet to boot. Dreamless, she'd slept.

Evey yawned and stared at the ceiling, wondering what time it was. The low lighting hadn't switched off; she'd forgotten to program it otherwise. She knew that it must be past ten, perhaps even nearer to noon. She'd grown sensitive to the subtleties of time in V's world of unending night. Invariably, she knew when she'd managed to oversleep. This time, she'd done so spectacularly. She wondered if it meant that depression was setting in. Evey screwed her eyes shut and swallowed. 

It'd take time, but she'd rise. The pillows smelled of lavender and of _him_.

**IV.**

Dominic had spent what felt like half the night parked outside Finch's home. He'd known where his partner lived, but he'd never gotten even so brief a glimpse inside as he had that evening. What furniture he'd seen was subdued, somehow classic. He suspected an armchair and a liquor cabinet farther in.

Dominic's flat seemed bland in comparison, sterile. He'd put no thought into his decorating, least of all his bedroom. As long as the mattress took his weight and the covers kept him warm, Dominic had always been happy.

Until now.

He'd caught a hint of coffee and scotch as he'd said goodnight to Finch—and, under that, the faintest trace of curry. He'd never thought of his partner as a cook, but he supposed that one had to get by, didn't he? Dominic's kitchen repertoire consisted chiefly of pouring cordial, cracking the caps off cider bottles, and heating microwave meals. He'd done the occasional frozen pizza in his oven, but even that took considerable vigilance. Most of the time, he ate out—or ate nothing at all. Supper wasn't hard to miss. 

Dominic hauled himself out of bed and rummaged in his closet for something that wasn't too badly wrinkled. He wasn't planning on heading to the office, and it was nearly noon anyway. He was taking a gamble, not least because he couldn't be sure that the streets hadn't been barricaded by some new despot sprung up overnight.

The thought of Finch missing supper (often, _too_ often) distressed him.

**V.**

Because in the end, no matter what, you had to face up to _something_.

Finch couldn't remember the last time he'd worn a robe and slippers. He suspected that it had been long, _long_ before this whole terrorist business had cropped up, and probably even farther back than that. He still bothered with freshly-ground coffee, though, mainly because he liked his creature comforts and because it reminded him that the world had actually once been civilized. Briefly, he wondered how much longer he'd be able to count on such luxuries. If the government was in shambles, there'd be no more supply trains. And if what shreds of it were left were up and running, well—they could _bloody_ well run without him for a day.

Miss Hammond was right about more than just that.

Shuffling into the living room—carefully, so as not to spill his coffee—Finch peered through the faint sliver of light between his curtains and wondered if the bulletproof glass was really doing him any good. There'd been no violent disturbances during the night, nothing he'd call riots, but the sounds of voices and footfalls in the faint morning rain had lasted (he could only assume) past the point he'd drifted off. He'd awakened to a stale pillowcase plastered to his cheek and the overwhelming need to urinate.

Nothing about that sliver of the world outside could tell him more than he already knew: London was holding its breath, lying in awestruck wait. There was scarcely a sound now, no music from the nearest speakers, no voices echoing off the pavement. Finch took a seat on the sofa and sipped his coffee, wrinkling his nose at the lack of sugar. He'd run out weeks ago, too harried to bother placing an order for more.

His stomach growled then, loudly, just as someone knocked on the door.

"I know you won't open up to just anyone, especially not now," Dominic called loudly. "But I thought you might make an exception!"

"Lower your voice, for crying out loud," Finch hissed, throwing the bolt and twisting the doorknob, wishing he'd bothered to set down his mug. Coffee went everywhere: his sleeve, the doorframe, the carpet.

Dominic glanced at the floor and then up at Finch, vaguely embarrassed.

"Sorry," he said hastily. " _Terribly_ sorry, but I didn't actually think—"

"—you'd find me here," Finch finished for him, finding he couldn't quite keep back a smile. "For God's sake, Dominic, come _in_."


End file.
